


Four Weddings and a Triple Chocolate Fudge Cake

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, R is a soft R, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes four weddings and a triple chocolate fudge cake for Harry and Draco to get there, but they do. In the end. Finally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Weddings and a Triple Chocolate Fudge Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [huldrejenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huldrejenta/gifts).



> You asked for weddings where Harry and Draco keep running into each other and here it is :) I tried to add in some other stuff from your wishlist too, see if you can spot them. Hope you like it. I kind of love it, even though it’s x4 longer than I planned it to be. Happy Holidays! Enjoy.

  


> **_Neville Longbottom & Luna Lovegood  
>  request the pleasure of your company  
>  to celebrate their wedding_ **

As he’s getting ready, all Harry can think about is how itchy his robes are, how the last time he wore these shoes was to a funeral, and how he’s glad Neville and Luna are the only ones who will be kissing at midnight, because there is no one on the entire guest list who tick any boxes for him.

As he’s staring woefully down at his floo powder, he decides to amend that last. He would gladly peck a few people on the cheek to usher in the new year, but Roger Davies has recently become very possessive over Hermione’s kiss quota, Mrs Weasley has discovered a new friskiness with the thought of more grandchildren, and Ginny, well, is Ginny.

Mrs Weasley is waiting for him on the other side of the floo, arms crossed over the frilly purple bodice of her dress. Admittedly, he is cutting it fine - the Portkey for the wedding party leaves in three minutes.

“Harry! Hurry up!” She ushers him towards the back door with frantically fluttering hands. The rest of the house is silent, but outside is a flurry of chaos. Ginny has the bow in her hair stuck on a beam, Percy is chasing Ron in circles trying to fix his robes, and George is fiddling with one of his inner pockets; Harry recognises the top of a packet of ‘Hang Around Powder - Fuchsia Fiasco’ which he is no doubt attempting to hide from Mrs Weasley’s sharp eyes.

The Portkey is a large white and lavender bouquet of blooming violets - nice touch Hermione. He doesn’t really have time to make any greetings - or get his robes dirty - before they’re whisked away to the picturesque clearing that will hold the main event. It is somewhere on the Lovegood property, but Harry isn’t sure where, even though this is his fourth time here. 

It really is quite a sight. All the fresh snow is natural, glittering with frost and fresh morning dew. The marble palace is actually a tent, but with its winding columns and spiralling white towers no one would know. Once he and Ron had enchanted it as such, they had left it bare, but now he can see the small additions Neville and Luna have made to make it theirs. 

The silver Murmuring Ivy climbing around the doors and windows is Neville. He must have sung to it softly for at least three hours to encourage it to grow that much. It quivers and a sprinkle of snow flakes cascade from its many leaves. And, there, peeking out from behind some of the columns are frozen pixies and nargles, their bright eyes wide, and their delicate wings spread for take off.

The inside of the tent is beautifully simple - and simply beautiful. A wide semi-circle of soft cloud-like white chairs arc around a small raised circle where they will take their vows. The ceiling is enchanted with fluffy snowflakes falling to just above their heads - more of Hermione’s work - and the ground looks like a freshly frozen lake. When Harry steps on it, though, it is perfectly firm and steady. Dancing ice sculptures slowly twirl around the edge of the room; Harry spots a jigging Leprechaun and a salsaing pair of centaurs before Mrs Weasley takes him by the ear to his seat on the groom’s side of the aisle.

Narcissa Malfoy’s sharp eyes on him from across the room make him feel extremely uncomfortable.

As he expects, the ceremony is wonderful, and the romantic in him comes out to gush and leave his cheeks flushed and his eyes shiny. Neville doesn’t slip or fall over once, and he finally looks like he’s grown into his ears with his coiffed hair. Luna is a dazzling ice princess, her gown a Muggle affair bedecked with twinkling pastel blue icicles that tinkle as she glides up the aisle on her father’s arm. They don’t stumble over their words and their first dance - once the chairs are whisked to the sides to create a large hall for the reception - is perfect and graceful.

They are smooching on the dance floor later in the night when Harry hears a quiet voice behind him say, “Sickening, isn’t it?” Of course, he knows who it is before he turns.

“Excuse me?” Harry says, more forcefully than he means. Because it is just like Malfoy to accept a hand of friendship, and then insult and ruin the gesture before the metaphorical first hour has struck.

“How sweet they are together, I mean,” Malfoy clarifies hurriedly, his palm up in front of him.

“Oh.” Harry should stop jumping to conclusions. There had been no spite behind Malfoy’s tone, so he shouldn’t have assumed his words were meant to harm. “Yes, they are rather, aren’t they.”

“Makes me feel a bit lonely actually,” Malfoy says. And before Harry knows it, he and Malfoy are sitting at a wedding talking into the night about the woes of their love lives, and how few eligible bachelors there are out there for them to take their pick of.

Even though it is a New Year's celebration combined with the wedding, by a quarter to midnight the party is starting to wind down. Harry is merry on Irish Butterbeer, and Malfoy’s face is flushed so Harry assumes the same is true for him too. All the couples are dancing slowly on the dance floor - even Mr Weasley is swaying with his wife, two left feet be damned - and readying themselves for the romance of the clock striking midnight.

“Would you be awfully offended if I pecked you on the cheek to usher in the new year, Potter?” Malfoy asks. They’re sitting closer than Harry had thought, their front chair legs crossing beneath them.

He can’t say he would be offended, not in the least, so he shakes his head slowly, deliberately.

The clock is on a snowman tucked away at the far side of the room. His face has two curly black moustache lines that wriggle their way around his carrot nose. At midnight, he opens his button smile wide, leans forward and sneezes to signal his counting the first hour.

The countdown begins around them.

The snow above them clears to make way for the fireworks Harry helped George design.

At the snowman’s eleventh sneeze, Harry feels soft lips on him. They aren’t quite all on his mouth, and they taste of Firewhisky as well as Irish Butterbeer - when had Malfoy had time to swig that without him noticing - and Malfoy’s nose bumps his glasses when he pulls away.

But, as he and Ron head outside to activate their Portkey home half an hour later, Harry can’t help but think it was, indeed, the perfect kiss to usher in the new year. Fresh and new and maybe something.

Or maybe he’s just thinking that because weddings make him feel lonely. And he’s sloshed.  


> **_Roger William Davies & Hermione Jean Granger  
>  cordially invite you to witness their nuptials._ **

Harry’s first thought, when he steps under the dove held ribbon and into the church, is that he is going to need every drop of liquor he can get his hands on to make it through this intact.

When Hermione told them - gushed for hours on end until her voice cracked - about all her wedding plans, and about how it would be a Valentine’s ceremony, Harry had expected he would find most of their decorating choices questionable. 

He was right. Everything is red and pink and heart-shaped, and he dreads to think what the reception hall down the road looks like.

Everyone is shocked to find Hermione’s dress a subtle pink that could _almost_ be considered white, while her jewellery and accessories are a less subtle shade. Even Roger’s bowtie is pink, and Harry doubts that was his choice. Everything is very... girly and un-Hermione-like. When she looks around, though, she is glowing. And, Harry figures, whatever makes her happy is good enough for him.

Their vows are so sickeningly sweet, Harry feels his teeth rotting just sitting there listening. They speak of eternal love beyond the limits of life and time. And passion and faithfulness and raising a brood with a perfect partnership. 

Although Harry is desperately happy for her, he also desperately wishes Malfoy weren’t noticeably absent along with his hipflask, or whatever he uses to hide his stash.

The hall, when he and Ron tiptoe in warily, is even brighter. An entire _flock_ of doves are twirling around each other up in the rafters, knotting and unknotting reams of shiny red ribbons into pretty shapes. The centrepieces on the tables are giant fluffy monstrosities that make Harry want to sneeze and cry at the same time. At least the dance floor is only marred with waves of magical red water rolling underneath the soft pink lighting.

Of course, their first dance is to Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Leviosa My Loving’, and Harry can only watch the first half before his eardrums feel like they’re bleeding, and he escapes from Mrs Weasley’s clutching arms outside. Ron, who is busy being smothered by his mother’s chest as she sways to the music with tears in her eyes, looks thoroughly betrayed when he catches Harry’s eye.

Malfoy is crunching up the gravel pathway as Harry claps the door shut behind him and collapses against it.

“What on Earth?”

“Where is it? Where do you keep your Firewhisky?” Harry demands without preamble.

“Why would I have Firewhisky? Granger explicitly stated in the invitations she didn’t want the heavy stuff here ruining her photo albums.”

“Because I tasted it on you last time, and I know you didn’t get it from the bar,” Harry says, fighting down his blush.

“Right, forgot about that, yes, you would have.”

Harry feels no small amount of triumph when Malfoy procures a hip flask from the depths of his robes.

“Where have you been, anyway? You missed the ceremony.”

“On call.” And now Harry looks at him, he isn’t in his posh royal blue robes like last time. The ones that cinch in at his waist and make his jawline look noticeably touchable. He’s wearing the dull grey Unspeakable robes he must have for work. He looks no less attractive to Harry in them though, it’s just more of a domestic give-me-a-sec-to-wash-the-dishes-then-I’ll-strip-you-in-the-bedroom attractive. His ruffled hair is rather endearing too.

“Shame. You missed every possible way of saying ‘I love you’ in the English language. You might have needed it for future reference.”

“If I ever want to declare devotion to someone,” Malfoy replies, pausing to swing from the flask, “I won’t be using Granger’s second-hand epithets. I’d go so far as to put money on them not even being in iambic pentameter.” He sniffs disdainfully before swigging again.

“We should probably go back in. I left them at their first dance. She’ll be looking for me soon. I wouldn’t want my waltzing lessons to go to waste either.”

“You learned to dance?” Malfoy asks as they slip back into the hall. Thankfully, Celestina’s reign has come to an end.

“Only a little. Don’t look so surprised. I’m not too bad at it either.” 

Even as he says it, Harry isn’t confident he can back up his claim with evidence. He isn’t sure whether to be horrified or excited when Malfoy warns, “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you,” and swans off towards the bar. Judging by the way Neville claps him heartily on the back when he gets there, someone has already spiked the fuchsia punch bowl sitting innocently on top.

Harry does dance with Hermione. He is only slightly less apt than Ron. And George trips over his own feet as he sweeps her around the the floor chasing the waves, which makes them both look better than they are. Of course, when Neville leads her through an uptempo number, he puts them all to shame - most people are too busy clapping along to Luna’s riverdance to notice though.

He fills his cup with the spiked punch, fills it again, and then again. Before he knows it, he is actively avoiding Ginny’s newest pickup lines by trying not to tread on Malfoy’s feet through a waltz.

“Calm down. You’re trying too hard. It’s not that difficult,” Malfoy soothes, and Harry is suddenly aware of Malfoy’s thumb stroking over the pulse beating wildly at his wrist - Circe, his heart must be going a mile a minute; he certainly feels like he’s got a Firebolt ricocheting around in there.

Malfoy slows them down, then actively allows Harry to take the lead the way he has been taught in preparation for his dance with Hermione. His aftershave smells like deep, musky smoke and lavenders. It makes Harry’s breath quicken, and he wonders if Malfoy can feel that too.

They fill their cups again, ruin some of Hermione’s photos, then drink some more, laughing the whole time.

By the end of the night, everything is blurred and time is passing in uneven segments. But the next morning, Harry thinks he can remember a dark corner that smelled overpoweringly of strawberries when they arrived, but of smoke and lavenders and sex when they left.

***

Harry is an awesome friend and an amazing best man. 

He hadn’t said anything or made any judgy faces when Ron told him about his wild love affair with Pansy Parkinson. He hadn’t tried to dissuade Ron when he showed Harry the ring. 

He went through five consecutive hours of dress robe fittings without even a whimper. He went with him to the formal parental conference as his witness - part of best man duties evidently - when Parkinson’s parents insisted that everything be done in the traditional pureblood way. 

He’s been asked about invitation styles, lace decorations, colour schemes and any number of other things he has no idea about - but, having been labelled the ‘gay best friend,’ apparently should be the authority on. He’s been the go-between through arguments and clashing schedules. He’s taken the brunt of Parkinson’s wrath when Ron was absent, and her overwhelming affection when they’ve done something right - ‘they’ being men in general.

So, yes, he’s justified in saying he’s an awesome friend. But he draws the line at being emotionally manipulated into picking their wedding cake because Parkinson is busy with a bridesmaid catastrophe, and Ron needs someone to blame when he returns with the wrong flavour. 

Just to make sure his arse is covered, Ron has neglected to turn up. Rather he has abandoned Harry to the mercy of Sugarkiss & Blossomheart’s painfully inefficient taste test monitor, Blueberry Powdercrush.

“I agree, Mr Potter,” she says sweetly, “the taste is lovely and tart, but I don’t think this particular cake would be suitable for an autumn wedding.”

“Why did you show it to me, then?” Harry grinds out. It’s only Draco’s palm on his thigh that keeps him from strangling her.

“Well, it’s ever so pretty, and the bubblegum and lemon swirl cake is our specialty.” She skips over to a glass cabinet and pulls out a thick tome. “Would you like to look through our seasonal catalogue?” she chirrups, an hour and a half too late.

Draco’s fingers pinch his leg when he twitches with annoyance. Then he slides his palm infinitesimally up Harry’s leg and says brightly, “If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”

Once they have the blasted thing open to the correct time of year - who knew one could fall into so many faux pas when one ventured tentatively into the world of cake - Harry’s eyes light on one particular cake he’s sure is ‘the one.’ Judging by the way Draco is licking his lips, he’s thinking the same.

“We’d like to try that one, please.” Draco smiles sweetly up at Ms Powdercrush, and she giggles girlishly at him, before hurrying from the room - obviously flustered and twirling at her mint green hair. 

In the drawing, the triple chocolate fudge cake is royalty in amongst a thousand paupers. It is a grand, three tiered palace of gleaming dark chocolate and fudge icing over a moist sweet chocolate sponge with a hazelnut fudge filling seeping through the artfully placed swirling cracks in the icing. Delicate golden leaves spiral down in a gusting waterfall. 

“Try not to drool all over the pages, won’t you, dear” Draco murmurs, reaching over and swiping a crumb of lemon whatever from between Harry’s parted lips. He licks it off of his fingertip deftly as Ms Powdercrush trips back into the room. 

Harry isn’t sure whether his hard on is for Draco’s display or the cake.  


> **_Ronald Bilius Weasley_  
> ** &  
>  **_Pansy Penelope Panashe Paradise Barney Parkinson_**  
>    
>  **invite you to join them**  
>  **as they unite in marriage.**

If he hadn’t done so much legwork and invested so much time to the cause, Harry would think Ron had had no say in his wedding. Everything is so...Pansy.

It’s an outdoor wedding with a weather muting charm around the marquee. Everything is perfect from the little finger sandwiches that haven’t toppled over, to the delicate array of autumnal colours, to the dainty way Parkinson leads Ron through the ceremony with subtle cues. 

Literally, the only bad thing Harry could say is that choosing to use so much orange and red and gold makes the Weasleys blend into the background or clash with their surroundings in equal measure.

Harry’s place is at Ron’s side for this wedding. He’s nervous about being up there in front of all those people - the Parkinsons have made a big pureblood to-do about all of this and consequently Harry wasn’t surprised when Ron was introduced to Pansy’s third cousin twice removed in-law as close family. He doesn’t have to do much for the ceremony, and Draco’s steady eyes coax him through his speech afterwards in a calm, confident rhythm.

Draco insisted on matching bow ties, but Harry is used to that by now; he’d argued himself out about that kind of thing for Halloween, where they still ended up going in a couples costume. He learned quickly that Draco always gets his way.

Hermione says they’ve only been dating seven months, but their foreplay has been going on ten years.

Harry’s inner romantic makes another appearance while he’s slow dancing with his date. Draco has schooled him by now, and Harry doesn’t step on his feet even once. 

“You think we should do something like this?” he asks as the third song finishes and they politely clap the live band.

“Like what?” Draco asks, raising his arms to carry on their waltzing as the strings section strikes up again.

“You know, like this.” Harry darts his eyes around the room meaningfully.

“If this is your way of asking me to marry you, I won’t even deign to respond. You don’t even have a ring yet, and it’s simply cheap to propose at someone else's wedding.” He nuzzles softly at Harry’s ear to show he isn’t really angry. “I want candlelight and dinner and romance.”

Harry takes that as the encouragement it is to get his act together. He Apparates them home and sucks him off where they land in the front hall. They end up sleeping there under a conjured blanket, because their knees are too weak to stand, Draco is too tired to Apparate them upstairs, and Harry’s wand rolls under the coat rack out of reach.

The next morning, after he has cleaned the dried come off of his belly and caffeinated his way out of his hangover, Harry books a table at A Touch of Magic for that night.  


> **_Draco Lucius Malfoy & Hairy James Porter  
>  would like to invite you to celebrate their wedding_ **

Harry glares down at the invite that went out. Not only is he now ‘Hairy James Porter,’ but also before the duplication spell was placed the artist had smudged the left hand border. A brisk wind circles through Malfoy manor and blows it off of the mantlepiece where it is balanced. At least he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

Teddy threw up on his wedding robes this morning too. Luckily, Mrs Weasley managed to spell it out with no permanent damage, but his collar and cuffs itch from the extra starching.

Harry flushes at all of the eyes on him. Logically, he knows Draco is standing right in front of him, but the ceremony Narcissa chose dictates they aren’t allowed to see each other until they begin their vows. Harry can’t wait for the charm to be lifted, he needs Draco’s reassuring smile - the soft one that no one else notices because it is so small, the one that is just for him.

A kerfuffle in the small crowd makes him cringe. Narcissa and Andromeda are leaning out into the aisle, hissing to each other. Their volume is increasing exponentially.

Something warm and comforting brushes against Harry’s fingers. He breathes out heavily, brushes back at the phantom touch and relaxes into his wedding.

He only stutters over one word in his vows, but Draco is eloquent enough for the both of them. And he looks wonderful stood there opposite Harry. What an odd couple they must appear.

During the reception, the Christmas tree falls on Ron and Percy, smashing all of the ornaments. The snow they’ve charmed to fall over the manor entrance turns to slush on the doorstep and Blaise Zabini slips face first into it. They try to stop the charm but can’t, so Mrs Weasley clears it paranoidly with a swish of her wand every five minutes after that. 

They run out of Firewhisky and butterbeer. Ron volunteers to make an emergency run to get some. Meanwhile, Harry suggests sneaking a bottle from Lucius Malfoy’s private cellar, only to find the very man behind him. For a second, Harry thinks he is going to have his guts painfully pulled out through his mouth. Or a punch at the least. Draco arrives to defuse the situation just in time.

By the time everyone is smashed and lolling around the manor, they’ve had three people throw up on someone else, a broken bone and a nearly suffocated baby. When Narcissa and Andromeda pick up their shouting match again, Harry has to excuse himself to the green and black antechamber where he got dressed to have a quiet breakdown. 

“What’s up?” Draco asks, sauntering in behind him like he doesn’t have a blood stain on his shoulder and nothing is wrong.

“This is a disaster.” Harry slides a hand through his hair and, great, he’s had a clump sticking up at the back all day.

“Why’s that?” Draco bats his hand away, sifting through his birds nest of hair himself.

“Everything that could possibly go wrong has gone wrong.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“What exactly about this day has gone right?” Harry sighs. He doesn’t want to be so defeatist in front of Draco, but…

“Well, I didn’t see any dark lords, and my father hasn’t cursed or bribed anyone outright.”

“Those aren’t normal things to be worried about on your wedding day, Draco.”

“And we’re married, aren’t we? That was kind of the point of the whole thing.”

“But-”

“And once everyone else has buggered off, I can take you through that floo, _home_ , where we can start our new life together.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only sap in the family.”

Draco sweeps over to the door in his silvery robes and glances out. “I think everyone is suitably drunk to not miss us if we slip away now,” he says, slyly. 

When they stumble from the green flames and into the soft yellow light of their Christmas tree on the other side, Harry is achingly hard and only wearing his wedding ring.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated here or at [LiveJournal](http://hd-owlpost.livejournal.com/).


End file.
